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Full text of "The Letters Of Horace Walpole Vol I"

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the same time, I will tell her that she may send any letters for him to me. Adieu! my dear child: I am going to write to Mr. Chute, that is, to-morrow. I never was more diverted than with his letter. ..."
86.    To HORACE MANN.
WHILE surfeited with life, each hoary knave Grows, here, immortal, and eludes the grave, Thy virtues immaturely met their fate, Cramp'd in the limit of too short a date!
Thy mind, not exercis'd so oft in vain, In health was gentle, and compos'd in pain: Successive trials still refin'd thy soul, And plastic patience perfected the whole.
A friendly aspect, not suborn'd by art; An eye, which look'd the meaning of thy heart; A tongue, with simple truth and freedom fraught, The faithful index of thy honest thought.
Thy pen disdain'd to seek the servile ways Of partial censure, and more partial praise: Through every tongue it flow'd in nervous ease, With sense to polish, and with wit to please.
No working venom from thy pencil fell;
Thine was the kindest satire, living well:
The vain, the loose, the base, might blush to see
In what thou wert, what they themselves should be.
Let me not charge on Providence a crime, Who snatch'd thee, blooming, to a better clime, To raise those virtues to a higher sphere: Virtues! which only could have starv'd thee here.
14 Passage omitted.                            and is buried at Hatfield.   He had
LKTTBB 86.—* Bichard West, only     a great genius for poetry;  a fine
son of the Lord Chancellor West, of     Ode of his, on the death of Queen
Ireland, by Elizabeth, daughter of     Caroline, is published in Dodsley's
Bishop Burnet, died of a consump-      Miscellanies.   Walpole, tion about the 26th year of his age,